


A Christmas Story

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-29
Updated: 2012-01-29
Packaged: 2017-10-30 07:45:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/329441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’re wearing one of her Christmas sweaters, green and garish red and decorated with several leaping reindeer, when you first walk into Strider Pet Shoppe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Christmas Story

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for santabound. :')

You are Jake English and you have the coolest grandma in the world.

 

Her interests are synonymous with yours; you happily drive over to her house to help take care of things (namely her dog) for her every weekend, just for an excuse to visit. Her cookies are unbeatable. She knits you made-with-love sweaters that you wear with pride and the beaming smile of an elementary schooler who hasn’t quite learned how to dislike old people yet.

 

You are Jake English and you are also nineteen years old.

 

But regardless of how many years you happen to have under your belt, the fact still remains that she adores you and you adore her.

 

:

 

You’re wearing one of her Christmas sweaters, green and garish red and decorated with several leaping reindeer, when you first walk into Strider Pet Shoppe.

 

:

 

You’re not sure what the extra ‘pe’ is for—it looks a little out of place, even if you suppose it must be for added refinement—but this is obviously the shop that put the other store you’d always gone to for dog food out of business, and so you walk in curiously, not knowing what to expect.

 

Empty animal cages line the back wall. Small pens with picket fencing, which is strange to see indoors, are scattered throughout the shop’s floor. The distinct smell that your mind labels as ‘a pet store’ is strong in here, the creamsicle orange parrot in the corner letting out a shrill shriek as you take another step inside. You nearly jump out of your skin and shoot it a glare before letting your gaze sweep over the rest of the store. Rabbits and cats and dogs are snoozing peacefully in their individual pens—the place itself is (admittedly) a lot nicer and more spacious than the other store had been, and a lot quieter. Well, as long as you can get the brand of food you need, picky as Bec has always been, you don’t really mind what store you have to go to. Still, you will miss the other one.

 

You glance about for an employee and spot of shock of blonde hair to your far left.

 

They’re asleep, just like all the animals are, you realize as you tentatively cross the distance the counter. Golly, you’d feel bad if you woke them up! That desk doesn’t look very comfortable at all though. Just as you’re contemplating leaving and coming back after picking up your grandma’s groceries instead, the parrot lets out a piercing ‘caw, caw’, tacks on a ‘motherfuckers’, and swoops over to land haphazardly on the employee’s head.

 

You’re still trying to get over the fact that there are actually people in the world that teach their parrots curse words when the snoozing employee jumps up with a sputter, chair letting out a screech of complaint as he stands to bat at the bird stomping around in his hair. Odd, pointy shades that you hadn’t noticed before and that were probably painfully squished against the man’s face as he slept almost slip off of his face: he shoves them back into position with a frown.

 

“Fuck,” he grouses at the orange bird, “that is the last time you are ever doing that to me, do you hear?”

 

If it is at all possible for a parrot to look smug, this one does, and it flutters back to its perch on the other side of the room and preens itself in what it clearly assumes is a graceful manner. The blonde worker rubs at his eyes, and you take the chance to search for a nametag or something (it’s awfully rude, you feel, to keep referring to someone using pronouns). Unfortunately there isn’t one.

 

“Oh,” he says, finally noticing you and standing up a little straighter, “Sorry about that. My brother likes to teach him bad habits—even named the asshole after himself. What can I do for you?” He settles into a tone that is more businesslike. He takes his job seriously, pet store worker or no, you observe privately. It’s a pretty nice quality for a guy to have! Not that you usually observe these sorts of things privately. Or even un-privately.

 

Err, anyways.

 

“Ah, yes, I’m looking for a particular brand of dog food. Would you happen to carry Garden Gnostic? Of any flavor, really.”

 

The employee (you’re itching to ask his name even now) pauses to think for a second before moving around the side of the counter, motioning across the store to a set of shelves, all stacked high with hefty bags of dog food. “Yeah, we probably do. If we have it in stock it’s most likely over there.”

 

You thank you him reflexively, turning to move towards the shelves—you get about halfway there before you break down and have to pet /something/. There are far too many kitten eyes and puppy-dog stares trained on you to resist for very long. You squat down beside the nearest pen of dogs and lavish attention (you always let out a woof or two at Bec, and he loves it, for whatever reason) on the canines enclosed in it, grinning widely when one leans forward to slobber all over your hand.

 

It’s then that you happen to glance in the direction on the employee.

 

He’s still standing next to the counter with his arms crossed, head tilted just so; you can’t tell if he’s looking at you or not because of the weird sunglasses. Either way, there is no possibility of him having not heard your enthusiastic commune with your new acquaintances.

 

The realization is rather embarrassing.

 

You stand quickly, shooting an apologetic smile at the dogs, before continuing on your way as casually as you can manage. Garden Gnostic brand is in stock, it appears. Unfortunately you have to strain your neck just to see it. Reaching up, your fingers just barely brush the bottom of the bag.

 

You clear your throat politely. “Excuse me, but I can’t really reach the top of the shelf…”

 

The worker looks up silently, most likely considering the height that he needs to conquer. Golly, you can see now that he’s even shorter than you are! Even so, he heads over and stretches way up while balancing on the tips of his toes, fingers only a few centimeters away from where yours could reach: he lets out a gusty sigh before giving up. You hear him mutter something like ‘dick probably did that on purpose’ as he disappears into a back room.

He comes back with a stepladder and a carefully blank expression, presumably to combat the grumpy one he’d been wearing before. He denies your awkward offer to help somehow—you’d be embarrassed in his position, so it seemed only fair—and goes to grab a random bag before stopping.

 

“You said any flavor, right?”

 

“Oh, yes, any will do.”

 

He hefts one down and you gladly accept it, tucking the bag under one arm and watching with a smile as he steps down.

 

“Anything else you need?”

 

“No, but,” you stop for a moment to wait patiently for the parrot to finish screeching, “I’m sorry, but do you have a name?”

 

His lips part minutely, as if he’s surprised you asked, but his tone is smooth and disinterested as he answers: “Just call me Strider.” You’d have preferred a first name, but a name is a name, and you introduce yourself as Jake English with the utmost friendliness.

 

Neither of you say much as you pay for the dog food, but something about this pet shop is much nicer than the old one.

 

:

 

The second time you walk in, you aren’t wearing a Christmas sweater, but you are on a mission.

 

:

 

The lack of Christmas sweater is of course due only to the fact that it is much too cold outside to wear anything besides the heaviest coat you could find. It is four days before Christmas Eve and you are under strict instruction to find Bec the biggest, fluffiest, most wonderful dog bed in existence, all for the sake of appeasing him on Christmas Day.

 

(Sometimes you wonder if your grandma loves him or you more, but then you scold yourself for being unfair.)

 

Luckily, you know exactly where you might find one such dog bed! You also know that the chances of Strider being the one working again could be anywhere from way up high or far down low, but still, it would be nice to see him again. There’s a bell on the door when you open it this time—it’s glaringly green with a neatly tied red ribbon, keeping with the Christmas spirit. It jingles as you walk in, eliciting a few stray barks from some of the store’s more outgoing occupants. Strider pauses on his way to the single pen that encloses the kittens; he’s balancing no less than five small bowls of what looks like the wet kind of cat food.

 

“Hey,” Strider says. 

 

“Motherfucker!” the parrot adds from the corner.

 

The blonde man shoots it a tight-lipped Glance and then returns his attention to you. You can’t help but offer him a cheerful smile, moving forward to take some of the bowls off his hands. Nothing wrong with helping the guy out, right?

 

“Hello! If you don’t mind, could I assist you?”

 

Strider clearly hesitates, but you’ve phrased your question so that it seems like he’s doing you a favor, and in the end he simply says, “Yeah, sure,” and rearranges the dishes he’s carrying. You have one in each hand. A plaintive mew comes from the kitten pen and you catch what almost looks like a smile from him before he’s turning away, bending down to carefully place the three bowls next to the cluster of hungry felines. Moving around to the other side of the enclosure, you do the same with your two.

 

“So, do they have names?” You run your fingers gently along the russet-colored back of one and smile as it arches its tiny back into your touch and purrs into its meal.

 

Again, there is a brief pause before there are words, but they come: “The one you’re petting is called Paradox. The grey one is Cale, the calico one is Anya, the darker orange one is named Dave because my brother is narcissistic enough to name both a bird and a cat after himself, and,” Strider reaches out to tug the light ginger kitten away from the calico’s bowl and towards its own, “that one is Duck.”

 

Your eyebrows rise of their own accord. “Duck?”

 

“Yeah, I know. Named him that cause his meow sounds like a quack. It doesn’t really matter what he’s called now, though; someone’s just going to change his name when they adopt him, you know?”

 

It’s interesting, you muse, that he could somehow become very talkative when on the subject of the animals. You’d taken him to be someone who talked as little as possible. Even so, it’s not a bad surprise. You’d almost say it was a good one! “What if they find the name endearing, Strider?”

 

“When pets change owners they get new names. Fact.”

 

You can’t help but roll your eyes at this. “Well, if you say so. You are the one that works here, after all.”

 

“Right.” He stands to let the kittens be, apparently ready to get down to business. “So what did you need?”

 

“Ah, yes, I need,” you clear your throat and recite, “the biggest, fluffiest, and most wonderful dog bed in existence.” 

 

“Really like your dog, don’t you?”

 

“Oh, it’s not my dog. My grandmother’s.”

 

He regards you quizzically for a moment before the corner of his mouth pulls up just the slightest bit, and then: “And here I thought your Christmas sweater last time was purely ironic. Shit.” You open your mouth to deliver some kind of defensive retort to what is obviously a very offensive statement when he stop you with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Calm the fuck down, I’m just teasing. None of my business what you wear. Anyways, I think I might have what you’re looking for.”

 

You huff to yourself anyways as you wait for him to come out of the back room, and—oh wow, that is a really fluffy dog bed! “Golly, I think that’ll work just fine!” The soft interior is creamy white, just a bit darker than Bec’s fur, and is a shade of forest green on the outside.

 

“Yeah, this is the most comfortable thing ever. Damn, I could probably sleep on it. It’s forty bucks, by the way.”

 

Yeesh, your grandma had given you a fifty for a reason. Or maybe forty bucks was inexpensive for a dog bed? You can’t really tell, seeing as you don’t go shopping for dog beds a lot. You fork over your money and struggle to find a good way to hold the bed—it’s rather large. Should you even bother wrapping it later?

 

You bid him farewell and call out a goodbye to the animals as you leave. The creamsicle parrot whom you have deduced is named Dave, like the kitten, screeches at you to fuck off.

 

Strider smiles that half-smile again and flashes the bird his middle finger.

 

:

 

The third time you visit you’re back to donning a Christmas sweater, just to flaunt it.

 

: 

 

The bells sewn onto its exterior jingle lightheartedly whenever you walk, and accompany the sound of the larger bell on the pet shop’s door when you open it. You do feel sort of silly, walking into a pet shop with a plastic bag full of well-decorated snowmen cookies—even if they are the kind with cream cheese and are therefore the most delicious things on the face of the planet—but it is two days before Christmas Eve and gosh darn it, you are spreading Christmas cheer. Strider is included on your list whether he likes it or not.

 

The blonde is helping out two customers who are clearly purchasing a kitten for their Christmas present, so you hang around the dogs, absentmindedly scratching one under the ear as you wait. A flutter of wings announces the movement of Dave the parrot. Suddenly, you have sharp claws digging in your shoulder and stiff feathers brushing insistently against your cheek. 

 

“Not for you,” you murmur at him crossly when he tilts his head towards your gift; you can see _that_ even from the corner of your eye. Parrot-Dave shifts closer to turn his head and let out a piercing screech _right in your ear._

 

Jeez—!

 

“Hey, knock it off,” Strider calls out at about the same time you almost smack the bird in the head trying to hold your ear in pain. The husband and wife are huddled over the kitten pen on their own now, speaking in hushed tones and smiling as Cale reaches out a smoky grey paw to bat at their lowered fingers.

 

Dave seems almost like he’s snuggling against the side of your face now and you don’t have the heart to push him off, even after what he’s done, and so you leave him be. You hold up your bag of cookies as Strider heads over to stand in front of you. “I brought you these.”

 

“Cookies?” He gives you an appraising look before stretching out his hand, palm up. “Well, okay. Thanks.”

 

You hand over the bag with a wide grin. You really hope he likes them! Actually, you’re absolutely sure that he will. The entire day spent in the kitchen making cookies for all your acquaintances was not on a whim, after all! “Merry Christmas,” you tell him earnestly.

 

“Merry Christmas,” he repeats, and you take the way he unzips the bag and shoves a snowman in his mouth right then and there as an acceptance of sorts. Strider places the bag on the front counter while he goes to assist the couple again (they’ve chosen their kitten) and you sit back for another hopefully short wait. Dave the parrot adjusts his grip on your shoulder again. You kind of like him, when he’s quiet. The two of you (mostly you) watch patiently as Strider helps the couple lift Cale into a weird sort of box thing (carton?) with holes on the sides. It looks pretty uncomfortable, but you guess that it’s only for a short time. The blonde man is completely businesslike as he takes their money, with not one foul word spoken at all. The couple waves goodbye and coos at the carrier when Cale mews questioningly, like he’s not sure why he’s being taken out of the pet store.

 

Strider comes to stand beside you; neither of you say a word until he mentions in the most detached tone of voice: “I hope they rename him.”

 

You don’t quite understand his fixation on renaming pets; you smile and simply choose not to comment. 

 

He’s good at holding a conversation as long as you’re the one doing most of the talking. Later you ask what he’s doing for the holiday—it turns out that his brother is going to be working on a Christmas special for some TV station, so he’s going to be alone on both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. Upon receiving your spontaneous invitation to you and your grandmother’s annual get-together, he declines with the excuse that he hates parties. After frowning at him for a moment you pester a phone number out of him and inform him that he is spending Christmas with /somebody/, whether he likes it or not.

 

“Sounds like you’re asking me on a date, English,” Strider says with raised eyebrows. He scribbles his number on an old receipt and hands it over with no fuss, though, and then leans back against the counter casually. You can almost feel his eyes examining you thoughtfully behind the pointy shades.

 

“Goodness!” you reply, and busy yourself with cleaning your glasses.

 

:

 

He, of course, neglects to tell you that he has to work on Christmas Eve until you’ve already planned the entire evening out. You stubbornly show up at the store anyways with an extra Christmas sweater, just for him.

 

:

 

Despite Strider’s complaints you turn on the first holiday music station you find on the loudspeaker radio and leave it. He looks completely goofy with his sweater, but you probably look silly with yours too, and then he lets you actually climb into the pen with the kittens and get all covered in soft kitten fur because the little devils will not stop climbing all over you, and it is all wonderful and it is Christmas Eve.

 

“You can keep the sweater! That’ll be my gift to you,” you inform him as he finally gives in and throws a leg carefully over the side of the picket fencing and settles down across from you. Instantly the kittens are all over him too. Christmas and company and soft, fluffy kitten fur.

 

“Thanks,” he says dryly, and scratches a kitten behind the ear. “What’d your grandma say when you told her you were ditching her for some guy in a pet store?”

 

You smile to yourself in a pleased way, letting your back rest against the fencing behind you. “She understood perfectly that I have Christmas miracles to work, of course!”

 

“…Well, all right, if that’s what floats your boat. But if anyone comes in, I’m gonna have to go help them,” he warns, “and this is probably gonna be boring as shit.”

 

“Not with me here,” you promise indignantly. The calico kitten meows at you for attention and you scoop it up into your arms, laughing slightly as it snuggles into the material of your sweater, purring all the while.

 

“So, tell me about this grandma of yours you seem to adore so much.”

 

It takes a moment for you to decide where to start, but you tell him most everything: how sometimes she takes you on trips to exotic places, and the two of you eat exotic things, and how she taught you how to handle a gun and could probably shoot something from a mile away. You tell Strider about the crazy artifacts she has scattered around the house, and how her driving skills are insanely horrible but she never gets into even a tiny fender-bender. You tell him that you don’t really know who your parents are but she was a mom and a grandma and a friend all in one. Bec makes it into your storytelling. You tell Strider how he’s so fast sometimes it feels like he teleports, and how when you were little he thought he actually did. He barks at the mailman just like any other dog. Somehow, though, Bec is just really great. He’s in a lot of pictures of you and your grandma, standing tall and proud beside the two of you. You pull out your wallet and produce one such photograph.

 

Strider examines it for a few seconds, clears his throat, and then pulls out his own picture as if he’s embarrassed he even has it on him—it’s of him and another taller man with platinum blonde hair, and what looks like a puppet seated on Strider’s shoulder.

 

“That’s my older brother,” he says, “Figured since you actually went ahead and told me about your people I’d show you mine.”

 

“What does your brother do?”

 

He must see the genuine interest on your face, because he sighs and closes his eyes before settling slowly into his own narrative: his older brother, Dave, has some sort of standing in the entertainment business, and even if you haven’t heard of him yet Strider assures that you will, though he can’t decide for what reason. Strider isn’t sure why his brother set up a pet shop either, just that he got it dumped on him. He comments offhandedly that it’s not a bad place, though. There’s not much said about Lil Cal, the puppet—apparently Strider doesn’t even remember where he and his brother found the guy. You’re a little confused (Strider talks about Lil Cal like he’s a real person and not a puppet, which is odd) but it’s…strangely endearing? You decide that that you don’t need to think about that at the moment.

  
It feels like the two of you trade stories about your relatives for hours.

 

There’s a kitten sleeping on your shoe and a kitten sleeping in your lap and it sure isn’t a party at your grandmother’s house, but you are remarkably relaxed, and it even seems like Strider is kicking back some. You like this—getting to know somebody, you mean. “Let’s do one of those get-to-know-you games!” You say it out loud before you can thinking about it, but it really is a good idea!

 

“Shit, like in elementary school? Lame.”  

 

“I never got to do any of those. Please?”

 

“You lucky bastard. Your teachers never made you play those things?”

 

“No, I was homeschooled.”

 

“Hah. Makes sense.”

 

You get the distinct feeling that he’s sharing a private chuckle with himself, and your eyebrows furrow as you demand, “What is that supposed to mean?”

 

“Don’t worry about it. What kind of game did you have in mind? It’s not like we have anything better to do, after all.” 

 

“Well, I…hm. What kinds of games did you generally play while you were in school?”

 

“Generally they involved a lot more people, but we only got us two, so I’d just recommend doing a back and forth thing—for example, I ask you something, you ask me something. That sound fair enough to you?”

 

It does, at that! You’re not entirely sure if he’ll answer honestly, but it still seems fun. “All right, you can go first, then. Ask me anything!”

 

“Let’s see…favorite color.”

 

“Blue,” you inform him, and bite your lip. He doesn’t need to know why, even if it’s nothing to be embarrassed about! “My question is…” Your gaze fixes itself on those odd sunglasses of his. “What color are your eyes?”

 

He stills for a moment. 

 

Nonetheless, you wait expectantly, and he heaves a sigh before plucking the glasses off his face. The pigment around his pupil is precisely the color of orange juice. You lean forward with interest, minding the kittens snoozing on you, and take his face into your hands, turning it this way and that with wonderment. Strider remains stoically silent. 

 

Orange eyes, imagine that!

 

“Wow,” you say, “It’s like we’re in a sci-fi movie!”

 

Strider shoves his glasses back on his face, pushes you back into your place across from him (luckily no kittens are squished in this process), and scowls at you. “Thanks a lot, English. That was sarcasm, in case you’re too socially inept to detect it.” 

 

“I apologize—if I offended you I meant nothing by it! Just, they are rather interesting,” you tell him, but after that he’s reluctant to answer or ask anything. Still, you figure that there’s always a next time. 

 

“What time is it?” he asks after a while of silence and petting of small felines.

 

“Nine-thirty, I’d say!” you reply, glancing at your watch. Sure enough, it’s around nine-twenty-seven.

 

“Well, I can probably leave at ten—if anyone wants to get their kids a pet for Christmas after that, tough.”

 

“Oh, really?” You grin widely at him. “Then, you should come back to the party with me. Since you’ll have time, of course!”

 

Strider wants to refuse; you can see that clearly. He can’t think of a reason to say no that you’ll accept, though, and so at exactly ten o’clock he makes sure all of the animals are situated properly, locks up shop, and climbs into your jeep (“It’s like an explorer’s car!” you explain when he gives it that appraising Look) with you, sighing in a resigned sort of way that you naturally ignore.

 

:

 

He makes the mistake of telling you in the car that he never learned how to dance; to top that off, he says he’s not doing anything of that sort in front of other people tonight—whether you like it or not.

 

:

 

You cheerfully inform him that he’s having fun tonight whether he likes it or not. It’s not a huge party, seeing as your grandmother doesn’t have many friends, but you have a hell of a time convincing Strider to try learning anyways; if he’s going to dance with anyone, he says, it’s going to be with someone he actually knows. He of course ends up slow dancing with you while you let out bouts of muffled laughter in his shoulder.

 

(He hadn’t, you are endlessly amused to learn, lied about his dancing experience. Neither of your feet escape the carnage that ensues.)

 

For whatever reason, though, when the clock strikes twelve on Christmas Day, you turn your head to press a kiss to his cheek, remembering too late that it’s not New Years or anything of that nature. You’re just having so much fun: you’re just really too _happy_ —but Strider makes a choked noise in the back of his throat and jerks away from you.

 

“Homeschooled,” he mumbles under his breath, as if he’s trying to remind himself. Your grandmother overhears and shoots you a smile. She likes him, you can tell. It is, you think privately to yourself, not a bad Christmas. Not a bad Christmas by far. And even if neither of you say much as you drive the blonde man back to his own car after the party ends, something about this Christmas is much nicer than the last one.

 

“Merry Christmas,” you say eagerly as he opens the driver’s side’s door to his own car. Your window is rolled all the way down. The cold air nips at your cheeks and turns them red, leaving a similar effect on Strider.

 

“Merry Christmas,” he repeats. You take the way he actually bothers to wave to you before speeding away as an acceptance of sorts.

 

:

 

You are Jake English, and life is like a Christmas miracle all in itself.


End file.
